


dress me down

by icecreamsocialist



Series: i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, pre-breziall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/pseuds/icecreamsocialist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've your number, Nialler," Bressie says. He sits back, not quite bearing down his weight but reminding Niall that he could. That he will, once he's good and ready for it, and no sooner. Niall shivers. "You want Malik."</p>
            </blockquote>





	dress me down

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be longer, but I'd hate to deprive the world of Niall-on-Niall action, so let's just say it's part of a series. 
> 
> Massive thanks to Christina, Carolyn, and Any for looking this over, and to my life coach Caitlin for the title and endless encouragement.
> 
> Ramfam, this is for you.

Bressie's not even touching him. 

Well, not where it counts; he's just got one massive hand splayed across the hollow dip of Niall's stomach, right below his ribs. The sleeve of his dress shirt slips cool against Niall's heated skin, sends a shiver down his spine. Bressie's still dressed, minus the sports coat--hasn't even popped out his cufflinks. He stretches out on his side next to Niall, head propped up, one heavy leg hooked over Niall's so he's a bit pinned down. Bressie knows he likes that, sometimes: feeling desperate and not being able to do a thing about it. He digs his nails into Bressie's forearm, into the tense, corded ridge that barely gives under his fingers. 

"Saw you tonight," Bressie tells him cheerfully, like he's still sat across from him at a charity dinner and not grinding the bridged front of his trousers against Niall's naked hip.

Niall snorts. "Right, kinda why we're here." He's a bit drunk, bit lazy, wants Bressie to throw him round but knows he'll make him work for it first. He tries to pitch his dick up in invitation, but it's a pretty pitiful attempt; Bressie just wraps one set of thick fingers round his waist and presses him back into the mattress. "Saw you, too. Saw loads of people."

"Saw Zayn." 

"You wanna make a list? Now?" Niall grumbles. He's been half hard since Bressie winked at him during the starter course; caught him right during his first bite of bacon-wrapped date and he'd been a goner. Wanted Bressie to bend him over the table, right there, right in front of his bandmate. Bandmates. Not any specific one. "Why're we talking about Zayn?"

"Saw you looking at him," Bressie says, smoothing up his chest, tracing over each nipple with a friendly finger. 

Niall tries to keep the whinge out of his voice but doesn't quite succeed. He's not trying all that hard, actually. "Course I was. What're you, what?" 

"You think about him?" Bressie trails his hand back down his stomach, rests his palm hot and heavy and so close to Niall's dick that his insides go a bit jelloid. He'd hate how easily Bressie can play him if it didn't work so well in his favor. "You think about him like this?"

"Like, uh, like what?" Niall breathes deep, trying to loosen the tight clutch of his lungs, settle the buzzing of his skin. He closes his eyes and tries to shove Bressie's hand lower via telekinesis.

The hand disappears instead. 

"Brez, fuck, come on," he groans, prying one eye open at a time. He finds Bressie straddled over him on his knees, close but not touching and still fully dressed, his massive thighs flexing against the taut material of his trousers. 

"I've your number, Nialler," he says. He sits back, not quite bearing down his weight but reminding Niall that he could. That he will, once he's good and ready for it, and no sooner. Niall shivers. "You want Malik."

It takes his brain a second to catch up, and by then Bressie's running the pad of his thumb up the underside of Niall's cock and he's not too keen on hypotheticals. "I--fuck, yeah, come on," Niall grunts, then remembers what he's supposed to be saying. "What? No, I--what? No." He shakes his head to emphasize, because really, _no_. But Bressie's closing his hand round his cock, palm hot and a bit clammy, and Niall forgets how to move his body parts on purpose.

He hears Bressie chuckle, eventually manages to shove two fingers somewhere near his face in response. 

"Come on, mate, it's alright. Just us here." He settles fully down across the meat of Niall's thighs and Niall arches into him, just for the answering forearm across his ribcage. Just to really feel how trapped he is. Bressie's such an immovable force above him; it sparks something in his gut, hot and desperate. "It's okay. Admit it. You wanna fuck Zayn."

Niall laughs. Or tries to, at least, but Bressie spits on his cock and jerks it a few times, tight and fast, and he can't catch the breath for it. 

"You wanna get his mouth on you, don't you?" He runs his thumb against that spot right under the head of his cock, the one that always gets it drooling, without fail, and sure enough: "Yeah, gets you wet, don't it? Bet he's desperate for it."

"Jesus. Dunno what the fuck you're--ah, _fuck_ \--what you're on about, you perv."

Bressie just pulls on his dick in response, twists when he gets near the head, and Niall gasps. 

"Sure looks like you do," he says, pointedly clearing off the slit with a flick of his wide thumb, with a twatty little smirk. And he's _such_ a twat; acts like some kind of self-deprecating, mild-tempered mensch over champagne then takes Niall home, peels off all the parts of his three-piece suit before they're even through the bedroom door, pins him down and jerks him off and whispers weird shit about his bandmate. His bloody _brother_ , practically. 

"You could talk about algebra and I'd still blow with you doing that," Niall says. He used to get boners in algebra on the reg, actually; it's probably a deep-seated aphrodisiac for him. "I'm 19, for fuck's sake."

"Don't remind me," Bressie says. He gives Niall a pat on the cheek, then leans back to wrench his legs open and settle down between them, drape himself across Niall's chest. It sends the air rushing from Niall's lungs, makes his dick throb where it's caught between them. Niall grips him at the waist and thrusts until their cocks are dragging together, Bressie's trousers damp and rough between them, until he's biting a groan off into the thick tendon of Bressie's neck. 

"Sounds like you're the one-- _Christ_ , yeah--the one thinking about it," he mutters. 

"Thinking about what, Nialler?" 

Niall rolls his eyes, tries to grind up again but Bressie shoves him back down with his hips. Still gets the job done, though; his dick's leaking freely now, painting the waistband of Bressie's trousers sticky and wet. He wants to tear them off, but not as much as he wants to come on them. "You know, what you said. Before. About, uh, him."

Bressie noses up his jaw. "About who?" He scrapes his teeth over the spot under Niall's ear. "Say his name."

"Nope." He tries for defiant but it falls a bit short, a bit breathy. The sad truth is Niall would do just about anything he asks when he's got him like this, but just about anything isn't _quite_ anything.

"Say his name, Niall."

"Whose name?" 

Bressie growls, reaches down for Niall's thigh and jacks it up higher, slides his meaty hand down towards his arse until he's knuckling back behind his balls. Niall clutches at Bressie's collar and whines. "Say it."

"Fuck, ah, _Zayn_." 

It's a helpless, desperate gasp, and he comes so hard he can't think of anything else.


End file.
